Many years ago, twenty-three to be exact, I ended up in a relationship with a married couple. I wasn’t seeking a relationship with them. At that time I was on the verge of exploring my bisexuality, but also between relationships when I met them at a party. After the party, he somehow got hold of my telephone number at work and started courting me. Within weeks I was madly in love with him, so much so that I conveniently ‘forgot’ that he was married.
He did not.
Once he realized that I would do anything for him, he wanted to introduce me to his wife. I agreed. Then he wanted me to have sex with his wife. I was not in the least attracted to her, but the way he asked me left no room to decline. If I didn’t, he wouldn’t want anything to do with me anymore. I couldn’t imagine my life without him and the very first night I stayed over with them, his wife made love to me. This was the first time since my early teens that I touched another woman, but this was so much different. Sexual. Primal.
The first month or two that I was involved with both of them was exciting, hot, sexy. One thing I have to say is, that despite not being very fond of her at first and always knowing that she would double-cross me whenever she could, in favor of her husband, his wife had taught me a lot. Where I always knew that I was bisexual, I would never have acted on it, without this experience.
I eventually moved in with them and felt on top of the world to be in a unique relationship like that.
Then, one night, he beat his wife up.
I saw another side of him.
My loving feelings started to make place for resentment. For fear. He must have smelled it and it was something he thrived on. He belittled me. Told me that no one else wanted me (my first husband told me the same), told me that if I left him he would ruin my career (we worked for the same branch and he had more power than me) and he never had sex with me unless his wife and I had sex first. There was a time when he said he wasn’t in the mood for sex, despite his wife and me touching and licking each other. Then he sent me out of the room and moments later I would hear them fuck. That hurt, and made me resent him even more.
One day I challenged him. He was angry about something insignificant and stood in front of me, angry because I asked him to repeat what he had said. I snapped and said “are you going to hit me too?” and moments later I came too, leaning against the wall. It took me a couple o seconds to realize he had slapped my face so hard that I almost lost consciousness. That was the first time. More followed, until the night he hit me several times with his forehead against mine, so much so that I couldn’t stand on my feet. I found bushes of my hair on the floor the next morning and discovered a burn mark between my breasts, where he had put out his cigarette.
For weeks after that he didn’t lift a finger to hurt me or his wife.
I couldn’t bring myself to love him anymore, but still I was so caught up in his web that I started losing weight because he had called me fat. He didn’t want to touch me because he hated my fat body. I lost far too much, far too quickly and had this loose skin on my tummy which gave him something else to push me away. So, I had a cosmetic operation to be beautiful again – beautiful for him.
Within one week after my operation, he slapped me again, hit me to the ground and left me lying there in pain. That was the moment I knew I had to leave. I just didn’t know how, as he had alienated me from my family. I was not allowed to go anywhere without him or his wife present, so I ended up going nowhere as I was ashamed of them, ashamed of what my life had become.
A month later, I lay in a hot bath when he stormed into the bathroom. Once again he was angry for some or other reason. He stood over me, his hand raised and his eyes dark with an insane fury.
“If you hit me now and I pass out, you’re a murderer.”
I have no idea where those words came from, but I spoke them. His hand lingered in the air and then he turned around and disappeared as quickly as he had entered the bathroom.
That was the final straw.
Two weeks later, with the help of my mom (who had no idea what the reason or the rush was), I quit my job and emigrated to the Netherlands.
© Rebel’s Notes
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